> Pxan exclaimed >

>

Pxan head rolled hit by a metal tube. His hands and feet were bound and he was cruelly beaten. His prosthetics were removed with an electric saw. He was a worm now. Worse than a worm, he was barely anything now. They held him there. At a certain point, he felt a great warmth. Then it became even greater and greater. He began sweating, his skin was burned. His corpse salted. and his fingers broke.

Once he lost all of his strength the deer cultist spoke to him again >

Pxan voice was reduced to a rustle of the wind >

>

The cultists grabbed their weapons and wimps and started beating him. Pxan lost hope. He would die soon and re-see his parents, his friends, and his dog. “Who knows how is he right now. I hope that there aren’t any ticks in the afterlife.”

Then the cultists stopped. They gave each other strange looks of doubt. The deer cultists looked at them. He removed his mask. He was a man well in his twilight years, his face full of scars and burns. Despite this, he had an excellent physique and well-ordered hair.

> he said >

Pxan was unbound and turned.

>

Pxan said nothing he continued to stare at the dark ceiling

>

>

>

A large cultist stepped out of the mob and trowed away his robes >

Pxan fainted.

> one of the cultists said

>

>

…

When he opened his eyes he felt well. He had no headaches, his prosthetics were in place, his skin wasn’t burned. He was fine. If it hadn’t been for that white ceiling of the hospital he would have thought that all of that was just a weird dream.

After some time a man in strange clothes entered the room >

>

>

Pxan stood silent >

>

>

>

Pxan looked down >

The man was a bit suprised >

>

>

>